


Bind Them Continually Upon Thine Heart

by MovesLikeBucky



Series: 12 Days of Blasphemy 2020 [9]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 1970s, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Crowley's Moustache (Good Omens), Enthusiastic Consent, Gentle Dom Aziraphale (Good Omens), M/M, Non-Sexual Bondage, Shibari, Strong Aziraphale (Good Omens), Sub Crowley (Good Omens), Until it suddenly is Sexual Bondage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 05:14:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28505061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MovesLikeBucky/pseuds/MovesLikeBucky
Summary: He’s kneeling on his bed, hemp rope wrapped around his thighs, then looped around his calves, keeping them tight together.  This shouldn’t be as comfortable as it is, trussed up like a Christmas goose.  He runs his fingers along the rope, taking in the texture of it.  The coarse grain under his fingers is soft, softer than he thought it would be.  The pad of his finger bumps over the braiding, tight and secure, holding him here.Aziraphale stands back, no doubt admiring his handiwork.  Crowley takes in the sight of himself, the knots and loops that are almost black against his pale skin, monochrome in the low light.  They aren’t black, though, but a very deep purple, a match for the silk shirt currently lying discarded next to his trousers in the other corner of the room.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: 12 Days of Blasphemy 2020 [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2073915
Comments: 12
Kudos: 111
Collections: 12 Days of Blasphemy 2020, Top Aziraphale Recs





	Bind Them Continually Upon Thine Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Day 9 is here and the prompt is “Bind them continually upon thine heart, and tie them about thy neck.” (Proverbs 6:21)

_Crowley stumbled up the stairs to his flat, drunk and stoned, more than a little out of sorts. The excess of the 1970s was a good fit for him, in his own mind. Fast cars, fast drugs, fast living. He could be as fast as he wanted to, no matter what certain angels might say._

_Crowley fell through the door, hugged the wall until he reached the kitchen. Running cold water from the sink and splashing his face, coming down just enough to be cognizant. Fully aware of the oncoming headache, of his shirt askew and the lipstick on his chest. Someone who had wanted to play. He didn’t play with them, though._

_He never did, no matter how many people wanted him._

_So easy in this decade, to inspire lust and gluttony. All of London was practically gagging for it. And if he hid his self-destructive tendencies in it, that was his own business. The anxiety running under his skin was like a crawling and creeping vine, thorns digging into him, making him shake loose at the seams._

_Alcohol used to fix it. So did run-of-the-mill demonic activity. He could control it, not even a decade ago, could put on his glasses and his cool façade and pretend he wasn’t dying inside. Wasn’t wasting away every day pining after a love he couldn’t have, a life he could never choose._

_Free will is for the humans, raise your glass and drink to it._

_He took a glass from the cupboard, filled it with water. His hands shook around it, tremors racking his arm and his wrist. “Stupid bloody parties.” He resolved that this was the end of it, no more chasing his sadness away in dive bars and discotheques._

_The world makes liars of us all._

  
  


“Is that alright, dear? It’s not too tight?”

Crowley pushes his toes into the mattress, feels the hemp rope bite his skin. It’s taught and firm, but with enough give that his unneeded circulation will be just fine. His toes are already burning where they are bent under him, and the cold air of his flat makes him shiver. But it’s calming, in a way, not being able to move as much.

He’s kneeling on his bed, hemp rope wrapped around his thighs, then looped around his calves, keeping them tight together. This shouldn’t be as comfortable as it is, trussed up like a Christmas goose. He runs his fingers along the rope, taking in the texture of it. The coarse grain under his fingers is soft, softer than he thought it would be. The pad of his finger bumps over the braiding, tight and secure, holding him here.

Aziraphale stands back, no doubt admiring his handiwork. Crowley takes in the sight of himself, the knots and loops that are almost black against his pale skin, monochrome in the low light. They aren’t black, though, but a very deep purple, a match for the silk shirt currently lying discarded next to his trousers in the other corner of the room.

There’s a cracking sound as Aziraphale rolls his neck, rolling his sleeves up for the next step of the process. He has three ropes, only one is occupied.

Three ropes to hold Crowley tight, to slow him down.

To stop him from going quite so fast.

  
  


_“Aziraphale…” The name was sighed out to the air as he sipped his water, trying to enjoy the buzz that was left. But he couldn’t, mind swimming with images of a fussy angel in his fussy cravat with his fussy hair and coat and tartan thermos that was still taunting him from its place locked up in the wall._

_“I wonder if you’re even thinking of me, ” Crowley said aloud to no one, “Probably not. Let me down easy, is it? Give me the thing I want then fuck back off to the bookshop.” He shouted to the ceiling, listened to it echo off the concrete. “That’s not fair, that’s not fair. That can’t have been easy, I don’t want to diminish it.” Crowley ran a hand through his hair, scratching at his scalp, before heaving a sigh and leaning against the counter. “Fuck’s sake, Aziraphale. Just drop a bomb like that on me and then leave. What am I supposed to do? Too fast… too bloody fast…what does that even mean?”_

_Crowley sank to the floor, back pressed against the cabinets. His eyes were stinging with unshed tears as he fisted his hands in his hair. He pulled his knees in close to his chest, tears falling from his eyes_ _. He didn’t notice the bright glow emanating from the living room, didn’t hear the click of oxfords across the concrete floor._

_“Crowley…?” Aziraphale approached Crowley as though he might run away, soft and tentative. Crowley looked up at him, taking him in. Azirpahale’s long coat was gone, just shirtsleeves and a waistcoat. He looked smaller, somehow, than he usually did. Vulnerable without his armour. No bowtie or cravat to speak of, just an open top button that shouldn’t have been as attractive as it was. His eyes were full of concern and questions, the low light casting him in shadows where brightness ought to be._

_“What are you doing here?” He asked, attempting a sneer that was interrupted by a thoroughly undemonic sniffle. “Come to smirk at me again?”_

_“I don’t smirk and you know it.”_

_“That’s a_ lie _and you know it.” There’s no bite to the words, just a slip back into their usual banter that put Crowley’s heart a little bit at ease. “You didn’t answer, what are you doing here? Why are you here?”_

_“Well, it’s a bit embarrassing, really…”_

_“What? In some kind of trouble? Mixed up with the KGB this time instead of the Nazis? Someone buy a_ book _?”_

_“Crowley… I heard you.”_

_“Heard me?”_

_“Crowley, you were praying. To me, and I heard you.”_

  
  


“We can move on to the next one when you’re ready. I’m in no rush, and we can always stop if you need to,” Aziraphale says, not for the first time this evening. Giving him an out, in case it’s too much.

“I think…I think I’m ready. Tell me what to do.”

“No, Crowley, only if you’re _sure_ that you’re ready. You always push yourself so far, this is for you to slow down, that’s what you said you wanted. It doesn’t do any good for you to slow down if you push yourself outside of what you actually _want.”_

That’s the question, isn’t it? What _does_ he want? Why did he pray to Aziraphale, call him here, materialize him in his bloody flat in the middle of the night? An echo of a conversation, in a car under neon lights, swims through his mind unbidden once again. Slow down, slow down.

And that’s what Aziraphale had offered him, wasn’t it?

“I’m ready,” Crowley says, taking a deep breath, “I’m ready, Aziraphale.”

The smile that spreads on Aziraphale’s face could light up the sun. “Right then, arms behind you, I’ll position you from there.”

Crowley complies, crosses his wrists behind his back, shivers as Aziraphale runs his fingers the length of his arm. It feels reverent, feels righteous in its own way. It grounds Crowley to the moment, even as the rope is wrapped around his wrists. Aziraphale lingers there, fingers tracing Crowley’s veins and up his arms, a touch as soft as anything. He moves Crowley where he wants him, arms extended backwards and fingers laced together, as he ties off the knot there between Crowley’s wrists.

“Is this alright, dear? Not too uncomfortable?”

There’s a stretch to his shoulders and his elbows, a soreness that comes with it, but it isn’t bad. It feels good, makes the world stop shouting quite so loudly. It drowns the noise out, being here in Aziraphale’s capable hands. Knowing that he’s safe, that nothing can touch him and nothing can hurt him, trussed up by an angel.

“No, s’perfect, angel.” Crowley isn’t sure why it leaves him breathless. This isn’t about anything except pulling him back down to earth, grounding him in the moment, making the noise stop. But he feels flayed open and seen, vulnerable in a way he never has been in front of Aziraphale.

“Wonderful, dear. Do let me know if the knots are too tight?”

Crowley nods and Aziraphale sets to his work, twining the ropes with precision, a lattice going all the way up his arms, even with his spine. It pulls him backwards, draws him tight like a bowstring. The rope is looped over Crowley’s chest and back under his arms, holding him solidly in place. Aziraphale ties off the main knot, right between Crowley’s shoulder blades, and lingers again. His fingertips just barely kiss Crowley’s skin, a vague suggestion of touch. 

“Have I ever told you… that you are quite beautiful?”

_“I can’t be that, Aziraphale! Don’t you understand?!”_

_Crowley couldn’t remember Aziraphale joining him on the floor, couldn’t remember when Aziraphale wrapped his arm around his shoulders. A wing sheltering him from this storm of his own making. Aziraphale didn’t speak, just held him, let Crowley’s tears stain his jacket as he cried out the pent up emotions._

_“It’s like the world is screaming at me and it won’t stop. Everything that used to work doesn’t and I feel like I’m about to crawl out of my own skin!”_

_Aziraphale sighed, pulling the tortoiseshell glasses off of Crowley’s face and running a hand through his red hair. Soft and comforting, everything an angel should be. The moment felt like hours, Crowley’s sense of time dilated as it was by the booze and the drugs. Could’ve been days for all he knew before Aziraphale finally spoke._

_“I think, I think I know something that could help…” Aziraphale cleared his throat, not meeting Crowley’s gaze, “I learned it… well, where and how isn’t important, but it is… it’s good for clearing the mind, for grounding one into the moment, as it were. Crowley, this may be presumptuous, but I’d very much like to tie you up.”_

_All of Crowley’s mental facilities went offline. There was an explanation, of how Aziraphale knew about this. The people he had learned the knots from, how he had been tied up himself a number of times and found it quite refreshing, all things considered. The words all blurred together with the hum of white-noise that filtered through Crowley’s mind at the thought of Aziraphale’s hands laying rope on him, holding him steady._

_Making sure he didn’t go too fast._

_“Yes,” Crowley interrupted him, not needing more explanation, “Yes, Aziraphale, I’ll try it.”_

  
  


The words hang heavy over the two of them, one more thing that they never say and never touch. Here, in the quiet of Crowley’s flat, with just the street noise below and the view of the London skyline out the large windows, the world feels just a little further away.

“I mean it…I am finding there has been a grave oversight on my part, dear. I sprung things on you rather suddenly, and I never really took the time to tell you what you actually mean to me.”

“Angel…” Crowley can’t form any other words. His head falls to stare at the black satin sheets, unable to look Aziraphale in the eyes at this.

They had discussed boundaries, Aziraphale had asked if he could talk to Crowley during the process. Crowley had readily said yes, not wanting to lose out on one second of hearing that voice like church bells, like laughter in the dark. But now, he was regretting that decision. He didn’t know it would be things like this.

“Crowley, dear, I need you to look at me. I need to know that you understand.”

“Can’t… s’not true, I’m not… I _can’t_ mean anything to you.”

“Darling…” Aziraphale sighs it out like a prayer and Crowley’s breath hitches at the endearment, “…I need this, too. I need to know I haven’t…haven’t done irreparable damage, haven’t made a complete pillock of myself. Please.”

Crowley tries, does his damnedest (which is quite a bit —demon, and all). But he can’t meet Aziraphale’s eyes, too overwhelmed by the weight of the angel’s words. “Can’t do it,” His voice cracks on the words, “Want to. Can’t do it.”

“I have one rope left, I know we discussed something around your chest but…I could do something else? If you want to be able to look at me. I could tie it around your throat instead, keep your head steady, if you’d like?”

“Would you like it?”

“I only like whatever you like here, my dear. This is for you, not for me. _”_

Crowley thinks about it for a moment, weighs it in his mind. He wants this, wants Aziraphale to trust him just like he is trusting Aziraphale now. He wants to give Aziraphale what he clearly wants, his trust and vulnerability. 

“Do it,” Crowley says, sure as anything, as he closes his eyes.

“Thank you, Crowley. Chin up for me, please.”

He keeps his eyes closed, but tilts his face towards the ceiling. The rope Aziraphale uses now is much less coarse. It’s soft on his skin as Aziraphale winds the rope around his back, crossing it over his chest before looping and winding it around his throat. It’s not a tight grip, by any means. Aziraphale stops several times to make sure he can slide a finger between the rope and Crowley’s skin, checking in on Crowley’s comfort as he goes. The thick knots lie on either side of his trachea, allowing him plenty of room to breathe even as they press into his skin. Aziraphale runs a hand through Crowley’s hair, longer than it had been the last time they crossed paths. He holds it out of the way, as he ties off the rope at the base of Crowley’s skull. 

“There we go,” Aziraphale says with clear pride at a job well done. Crowley tilts his head back down, finds he can only go so far. The rope is wound high enough to keep his chin tilted up at a slight angle. The pull in different directions plants him firmly in the moment. His legs spread slightly, the twist and pull on his arms, and now, the positioning of his neck.

The pain should be uncomfortable, should make him want to struggle to get free, should scare him. Instead, he finds, all he wants is to let go and float on the warring sensations, like driftwood caught in the tide, letting it take him wherever it wants. Letting _Aziraphale_ take him wherever he wants.

His eyes fall open slowly, room swimming into focus. Aziraphale is there in front of him, fidgeting with his ring like he does every time he’s nervous. The silence is thick in the air as Aziraphale both tries to look at him and tries not to.

“Hi,” Crowley finally says.

“Hello,” Aziraphale says back.

Even in the low light there is something in Aziraphale’s eyes that’s different than before, some kind of unspoken thing. Crowley has meticulously logged every look he’s seen cross the angel’s face and this one is almost entirely new. He’s seen hints of it, when Aziraphale thought he wasn’t looking. A fleeting glance of something that always leaves and Crowley’s never quite been able to place.

“How is it?”

“Good…really good…” Crowley says, stretching at the ropes around his wrists, the ones on his legs. “S’like, I don’t have to think about anything. Just exist here…in your hands.”

“Oh, wonderful!” Aziraphale says as a wide smile breaks across his face. The one Crowley likes best that crinkles the corners of his eyes, that doesn’t hide anything. “That’s how it should work, of course. It’s a trust exercise, letting someone else be in control.” Aziraphale reaches out a shaky hand, cups Crowley’s face and strokes his cheek with his thumb, “Thank you…for trusting me.”

Crowley swallows thickly, doesn’t miss the way Aziraphale’s eyes dart to his throat, “Of course I trust you, featherbrain.” He tries to sound petulant, but fails miserably around the lump in his throat. Aziraphale steps away from him, walks the perimeter of the bed. His gaze is a heavy stone between Crowley’s shoulders. He’s held open and seen, more so than he ever has been. 

“Gorgeous, absolutely beautiful. Did you know, I’ve always thought so? Even since Eden, truly.” Aziraphale continues his slow circuit around Crowley, eyes never leaving him. “Heaven said that demons would all be putrid and vile things, fully evil at all times. No redeeming qualities to be had at all. ‘Aziraphale,’ they would say, ‘you _must_ thwart the wiles of the evil one at every turn.’ Which, I suppose they believe.

“But Heaven isn’t here, they haven’t walked with humans, and they sure haven’t walked by my side. But you…” Aziraphale stops in front of him, places his hands on Crowley’s shoulders, “You _have_ been here, by my side. My constant and my North Star. You’re always here, whether I want you to be or not. Being kind to me when no one else will be, looking out for me when no one else does.” Aziraphale leans in closer, mere inches from Crowley’s face now. “My dear, I don’t know what I would be without you, but it certainly wouldn’t be who I am now, and I don’t think I would ever want to know that version of me.”

“Aziraphale…” Crowley’s tongue feels too thick in his mouth, dry and sticky. He swallows, bids the words to come out. “What are you saying?”

“Isn’t it obvious by now, my dear?” Aziraphale asks, eyes shimmering with the beginnings of tears, “I love you, Crowley. And I have for far longer than I would care to admit.”

And just like that, there it is. Out in the open, nowhere to run from it. Aziraphale loves him. Aziraphale is standing here in front of him and he _loves_ him. He just said it, like he meant it. And he’s looking at him and there are tears in his eyes and Crowley realizes he isn’t the only one here that is spread open and vulnerable.

“You don’t have to say it back, but please just say something. If I’m wrong, tell me, but if not…if not, just tell me.”

Crowley’s brain runs to catch up, needing to respond and needing to assuage Aziraphale’s fears. His mind is a flurry of things he could say. The obvious ‘I love you, too’, the truthful ‘I always have’, the absolutely unacceptably sappy ‘you complete me’, but instead he lands on just one thing.

“If you don’t get over here and kiss me —“

The threat dies in his throat as Aziraphale’s hands cup his face, as their lips crash together in a kiss. Suddenly everything is Aziraphale. Aziraphale’s hands in his hair, Aziraphale’s tongue in his mouth, Aziraphale’s chest pushing against his, brass buttons of the waistcoat cold on his bare skin.

Aziraphale’s lips start to wander, catching the corner of his moustache, kissing along the line of rope against his neck, around to the front and in between each gap. His hands are firm as they slide down Crowley’s chest, landing on his hips and gripping him just this side of tight enough. Crowley lets him, gets drunk on these kisses, on Aziraphale’s roving hands and lips and teeth as Aziraphale all but worships his body, touch and kiss finding every inch of skin he can reach and then doubling back. Crowley is a wreck for it, shuddering with warmth and arousal and straining at the rope around his arms.

“Aziraphale, please, need to… want to touch you.”

Aziraphale kisses him deeply once more before pulling away. Crowley chases after him, eyes still closed as he leans forward, but Aziraphale has moved around behind him now, fingers tracing the deep purple rope that binds Crowley’s arms. 

He grips the line across Crowley’s shoulders, “Brace yourself, darling, I’m afraid I’m in far too much of a hurry.” He adjusts his hold and then pulls, the tight fibre of the rope all but disintegrating under his strength. The rope falls away from Crowley’s arms, torn and ruined.

“Angel, Jesus Christ!”

“I told you darling, I’m in a hurry.” The rope between his ankles meets the same fate, and Crowley turns quick as a whip, presses his mouth to Aziraphale’s, nimble fingers already working on the angel’s waistcoat as Aziraphale holds him close, kisses him like he means it.

And he does mean it, Crowley realizes with startling clarity, he _does_.

Crowley pushes Aziraphale back into the mattress, never breaking the kiss. Aziraphale’s hands wander up and down his back, like he’s counting the vertebrae in Crowley’s spine, before they finally land cupping his ass.

“Yes, Aziraphale, that, _now_.” Crowley rolls his hips, grinding down against Aziraphale, feeling the erection the angel is sporting that matches his own. All of a sudden there are way too many clothes involved in the proceedings, and he’s just about to do something about it when there’s a snap and the tang of ozone, leaving both of them completely naked.

“Anything you want, my darling, anything at all.” Aziraphale kisses him again as Crowley gasps at the feel of skin on skin. His hands roam over Aziraphale’s plush curves, rake through his chest hair. Crowley’s lips kiss everywhere he can reach. He rolls his hips again, nearly coming from the feeling of Aziraphale’s thick cock sliding against his own, but that’s not what he wants.

“Angel, need you, fuck me,” Crowley breathes in between kisses and nips to Aziraphale’s skin. Ever the gentleman, Aziraphale obliges. Crowley feels the angel spread his cheeks before circling a slick finger over his rim, causing him to moan out loud.

“Oh my darling, gorgeous thing,” Aziraphale coos into his skin as he pushes inside, working Crowley open on his fingers, getting Crowley ready for him. “How long I’ve wanted you, wanted this. I could ravish you for days and never get tired.”

“So do that then,” Crowley says with a smirk.

“Your threats are a bit empty with that ridiculous thing on your face, dear,” Aziraphale says as he kisses the corner of Crowley’s mouth. Crowley turns his head chasing Aziraphale’s lips, wanting to taste his kiss again. Aziraphale is maddeningly faster, tilting his head out of the way but still managing to kiss Crowley’s cheek or forehead, laughing at the way Crowley whines.

“Bastard, you hurt me, you know,” Crowley says with what is decidedly _not_ something so undemonic as a pout.

“I’m fairly sure I know how to make it better.” The next kiss is deep and desperate as Aziraphale grips Crowley’s hips tight and pulls him further up the bed, positioning the head of his cock at the demon’s entrance. “Are you ready for me, darling?”

“I’ve been ready for ages, angel, just fuck me already.”

“Quite,” Aziraphale says as he pushes in slowly. The stretch is intoxicating as Aziraphale inches in further, filling Crowley completely, like they were made for this. Soon enough, Aziraphale’s hips are flush to Crowley’s arse, and he pauses to let Crowley adjust to the intrusion.

“Fuck’s sake, angel…”

“Does it feel good? I want it to feel good for you, Crowley,” Aziraphale eyes rove over Crowley’s naked body as he scratches his nails through the sparse red hair on Crowley’s chest, “ _My_ Crowley.” The possessiveness of the gesture paired with the tone make Crowley roll his hips, take Aziraphale in just that much deeper. The angel’s hands find his hips again and he lifts Crowley up slowly, pulling back out, making him keen, before guiding him back down. He sets a rhythm, slow and steady. He lifts Crowley so easily, as if he weighs nothing, but he’s still infinitely tender, not taking more than he thinks Crowley can handle. The thought of being taken apart like this, in the hands of his angel, sends a thrill up Crowley’s spine and he shudders.

He brackets his legs on either side of Aziraphale, takes over the speed on his own. His neck is still trapped in the posture restraints, tilted upwards to the ceiling just enough to be uncomfortable. Aziraphale keeps one hand on Crowley’s hip, while the other reaches up and undoes the knot. The rope slides free, falls from Crowley’s skin and to the bed. Crowley grinds down harder, taking Aziraphale as far in as he can, feeling the angel’s thick cock against his prostate, building his pleasure with every pass of it.

Crowley falls to his elbows, captures Aziraphale’s mouth in a sloppy kiss as the angel continues to fuck into him, snapping his hips and making Crowley see stars. Crowley’s hands roam Aziraphale’s body, mapping out the hills and valleys of him. His breath is little more than pants and whines, whispered words of ‘yes’ and ‘angel’ as Aziraphale reaches between them and wraps his hand around Crowley’s cock.

“Angel, ‘m close, not gonna… can’t last.”

He strokes in time with his thrusts, makes Crowley’s pleasure build faster. “You beautiful, lovely thing you,” Aziraphale whispers low, a bruising grip on Crowley’s hip, “I want to see you, come for me, darling, I love you.”

The words are like the flip of a switch, and Crowley cries out as he spills over Aziraphale’s hand. He collapses to the angel’s chest, kissing whatever skin he can reach, sated and happy as Aziraphale works his hips faster, chasing his own release inside Crowley’s body.

One final thrust, buried in to the hilt, and Aziraphale is coming inside of him with a guttural groan. It rumbles through his whole body, through his chest, where Crowley’s head lies pillowed. It’s the best sound Crowley has ever heard, and he never wants to stop hearing it.

They lie there entwined for a few moments, Aziraphale sparing a miracle to clean them up. Crowley touches his hip, where the bruise is now forming, and smiles. A memento he’ll press down on throughout the day tomorrow and remember that Aziraphale had taken him, had claimed Crowley as _his_.

Crowley curls up against Aziraphale’s chest, drifts in and out of consciousness for a while until he realizes said chest is shaking. He looks up at Aziraphale, finds him doing his best to stifle his laughter.

“Wotsit then?” 

“Your… your moustache, dear. It seems I’m quite ticklish, after such excursions.” Aziraphale finally allows himself to laugh for real, and Crowley smirks, always keen for an opportunity. He rubs his face on Aziraphale’s chest, making him cry out in laughter. “Crowley, stop! I just said I’m ticklish!”

“But what if I like hearing you laugh?” Crowley asks, propping his head on his hand, settling back down and gazing at Aziraphale with what he knows is open adoration. Aziraphale’s face softens into something fond and besotted as he hooks a finger around Crowley’s chin, pulls him up into a soft kiss.

“Sappy old romantic.”

“Hey! I’ll have you know I have a reputation to keep.”

“Oh, yes, of course, dear. Such a big scary demon with a caterpillar on his lip.”

Crowley lets fall a string of consonants, not any real words between them, in mock offence.

“I’ll show you big scary demon; I’ll have you know I’m quite adept at tempting angels to sin.”

“Are you now?”

“Gluttony, sloth… _lust_ …if you’re being technical.”

“My darling, I don’t think it’s tempting if I go _willingly_ , and besides… it’s not lust if the feelings come from love.” Aziraphale kisses Crowley’s nose, wraps his arms around him tight.

 _Love_ . And isn’t that funny? After everything else in their long lives, all the distance and the fights, and the friendship and camaraderie; all of it only served to lead them here. To a flat in Mayfair in 1974, where finally — _finally_ — a demon who goes too fast learns to slow down, and an angel watches over him. 


End file.
